


kiss the demons out of my dreams

by nefertiti



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Politics, Rebellion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 12:46:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nefertiti/pseuds/nefertiti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The people wanted change. They wanted things to be better. They didn’t want this. No one wanted this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	kiss the demons out of my dreams

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warning for implied rape (nothing graphic), references of queerphobia/ableism/classism and all the nasty stuff involved in dystopian regimes.

Grantaire wasn’t sure what life truly meant to him. It’s not that he didn’t have a reason to live. He lived because it was something to do and because he had people to live for, but life in itself was exhausting.

Life was running and hiding. Life was being either covered in dirt or covered in blood.

Life was a wall blocking him away from everything he once held dear.

Life was a wall crumbling around him and crushing him in the wreckage and he was tired. He was just tired.

If he asked anyone around him, if he asked them if they were tired too, they would scoff and laugh him off. But he knew them and he knew that they were just as fucking tired as he was.

Sometimes he would look at the fortress blocking him out from civilization and his nose would flare. He would feel an anger that was so intense he could barely breathe. But it would fade away into exhaustion and he would keep on doing what he was used to.

Running. Surviving. Living.

He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to be alive a lot of the time.

The only thing that really kept him together was the small family he built around him. They were the reason he stopped running, because it wasn’t just about _his_ life anymore, if it was he probably wouldn’t  still be breathing. It was about Feuilly and Eponine and Gavroche and Bossuet and Fantine. They were the reason that his heart was still beating.  

 

* * *

 

 

It all started out twenty years ago with one man. With one man who knew how to wield pretty words. It’s funny how often that could be used to describe so many of the biggest tragedies of mankind. One charming man, with pretty words and extravagant ideas and suddenly that man has an army and loyal followers and everyone else follows lest they’re swept under the rug. And then that monster gets to sit on a throne with more power than anyone else in the world has ever had. And his council, _The Keys_ , they were just as bad as he was.

They were called The Keys, because they _opened the door that was blocking the world from a different kind of civilization_. Utopia. It was pretentious and ridiculous, but no one laughed at them. No one laughs at the people in power. When you hold someone’s life in your hands, when you can make or break them with a simple word. No one doubted your ability to do anything.

 

* * *

 

 

Living the way they lived wasn’t easy, but they did what they could. They all shared their rooms with someone except for Fantine. Bossuet and Grantaire had shared the same space without (much) accident for three years and it was easy.

Living together for so long meant that they all had specific tasks to make certain that everything ran smoothly.

For all that The Keys and a lot of The Elite thought them useless, _Unwanted_ , they served a purpose.

 

“Grantaire I need you in here.” Fantine called out, peeking her head out of her makeshift hut with a smile. She did almost everything with a smile. She managed to be the most ridiculously lovely person he ever knew, the most optimistic of all of them, outside of perhaps Bossuet. She always told them _“There was a time when I didn’t have anything to smile about. Now I do and I’m going to hold onto that.”_ She was more of a mother than Grantaire ever had, than most of them ever had.

 

(Life was Fantine’s kindness. The easiness in which she bestowed his compassion upon all of them as though there was nothing else she’d rather do. Her hair was as golden as her heart and her heart was as golden as the sun. It was as if she was entirely made of pure gold. Life was Fantine and the way she ruffled his hair.)

 

“Do you need me to go hunt, because Bahorel’s already...” He wiped his hands on his tattered jeans to get some of the dye off and joined her where she was sitting on the floor. Her room was bare outside of the piece of cloth thrown across soft soil that they all used as a bed, a few items of clothing and a ridiculously giant stack of wood.

“No I need you to go meet some Elites.” At Grantaire’s wrinkled nose she laughed and beckoned him closer to her.

“Feuilly and Bossuet have gone to go get more wood and you’re the only person I trust enough to do this.” She patted the earth next to her and he took his seat.

“And we need more wood _why_?” He asked gesturing to the considerable amount sitting across them.

“Gav said that they’re planning to ring the bell again soon.”

And all Grantaire could do was groan.

 

* * *

 

 

Crying out doesn’t mean that the right people will hear you. Sometimes the kind of help you get isn’t the kind you want. The people of Old France learned that in the nastiest way possible. It had happened so gradually that they barely even noticed. One day everything was normal and the next, there was a giant wall built up enclosing Paris (and it was happening all over the world too; Washington, Rome, Madrid, Berlin. Capitals everywhere were being closed up and everyone on the outside was left to fend for themselves) and that was that. New Paris was born. Certain people were allowed entry. Certain people were not. It was all very specific. If you didn’t meet the standards The Keys had for you, you were out. Doctors were in. Architects were in. Engineers were in. Scientists were in. Artists were in. Performers were in. The wealthy were in. The intelligent, the artistic, the beautiful, they all stayed so they could help build a new city. A beautiful city. _A perfect city_. But anything that interfered with that beauty was out. The mentally unfit were gone. The jobless were gone. The homeless were gone. The people who didn’t fit into the gender binary were gone. The queer people were gone. Everything that didn’t fit was gone.  

People didn’t realise until it was too late. It wasn’t like the movies. The sky didn’t suddenly get dark, the birds didn’t stop chirping, the sun was still shining, everything was the same, except for where it wasn’t. Except for the parts where people were dragged out of their beds screaming and families were torn apart. Everything was the same, except for the parts where it wasn’t.

 

Grantaire still remembered when he was thrown out. ( _Everyone remembered when they were thrown out.)_ He was fifteen and he broke his arm playing lacrosse. After a week of detox and another week of therapy, his doctor told his parents that he was an alcoholic and that he was depressed and that was it. No fanfare. No tears. No heartfelt farewells. He was taken away before his parents could even move. Before his mother could even kiss him goodbye, he was packed in a tiny cell with a bunch of other Unwanteds. It was there that he met Bahorel actually.

Bahorel had poked his cast and asked. “Does that hurt?”

“Yes you fucking dick.” Grantaire replied through gritted teeth.

“Good.” He shrugged seemingly unconcerned.  “You better get used to it.”

There were no more words as they sat in the cold, hard cell with no food or water for a day and until a few more Unwanted trickled in and the bell started to peal. The bell signalling their departure. It was like a celebration. Except no one was really celebrating. Too many people had lost the people they cared about to those marches to celebrate. They were all just jostled into straight lines and marched out of the Citadel.

And when the gates were closed, everyone went on with their day.

 

 

* * *

 

 

There was a woman hiding in the dark at the edge of wall with two large black bags at her feet. She wore all black and she would have blended into the night if it wasn’t for the ridiculously conspicuous red overcoat. She turned around when she heard him approach and then she walked closer when she saw him and- _oh_. Not a woman then.

“You’re Enjolras right?” Grantaire looked at him. There was no way of denying it, but this man was fucking beautiful. His long hair, which was in a loose ponytail, was more yellow than Fantine’s, and he didn’t think that was even possible. He was tall and he held himself up with such grace that Grantaire could mistake him for royalty or perhaps a deity. Grantaire didn’t believe in their caste system much, but he would understand why someone like that would be considered superior to him in every way.

“You’re not Feuilly.” The beautiful man looked at him distrustfully and well, transcendent beauty aside, Grantaire couldn’t say that he didn’t feel the same.

“Feuilly’s occupied. Fantine sent me instead. She told me to say A-B-C if that’s worth anything.” And if the way Enjolras’ shoulders sagged and relief washed over him meant anything, it was.

He handed Grantaire the bags he was holding and then he sighed. “I’m more used to dealing with Feuilly, but I suppose I’ll just have to catch you up.” Grantaire couldn’t really do anything but shrug at that.

“When the revolution comes you will have supporters from inside the Citadel. The people understand that this injustice has gone on for too long and they want to help you all. A lot of them are scared of course but-”

 “Well of course they’re scared.” Grantaire snorted. “A bloody revolution? Yeah well-have fun with that.”

Enjolras furrowed his brows and hesitated before asking: “And the people of the Fringes? Many are willing to lay down their life for freedom.”

“I’m sure there are some people who would, but we spend most of our time fighting to stay alive. I don’t think you’re going to find an abundance people who’d give up that life up so willingly.”

Enjolras looked vaguely frustrated, like he’d heard this argument so many times. “You wouldn’t be dying for yourself. It’s for so much more than that.”

“Let me guess, you’re doing it to be noble right?” Grantaire scoffed. “For honour. All noble people have is their nobility and their honour. Good men die for honour and get nothing in return. You can’t feed yourself and your kids with glory. You can’t-“

“It’s not _about_ personal glory.” Enjolras shot back before he could even finish his sentence. “It’s about the future. It’s about the fact that when you’re dead and gone you’re leaving people in this world. Younger generations who are going to grow up thinking that this is all okay, knowing _nothing_ but this. We’re not fighting for ourselves, never for ourselves. We’re doing it for them. So they can have a chance.”

Grantaire didn’t know how to respond to that properly, so he didn’t. What he did say was: “When you burn your house down and die in the fire, they’re the ones who have to fix what you destroyed.”

“Fire destroys Grantaire,” Enjolras replied slowly, looking at him strangely. “But it also cleanses.”

And Grantaire lived with Eponine so he was used to crazy, beautiful people so, “Yeah look maybe I’m not the one you should be having this conversation with.” he replied. Still there was some part of him that couldn’t help thinking that he wouldn’t mind laying down his life for someone like that and that brand of thinking was dangerous.

“I can see that.” Enjolras was still looking at him curiously. “Well I’m sorry to have bothered you with this. I’ll just-“

“How are you getting back in?” Grantaire asked, and he’d been wanting to ask that for a while. Elites rarely ever leave the Citadel, knowing how easy it was for them to get trapped out in the Fringes and _no one_ wants to be trapped in the Fringes.  

Enjolras smiled at him and if Grantaire’s mouth dropped open a little, no one would blame him. “I have my ways. Goodbye Grantaire.”

“Yeah.” Grantaire replied intelligently, still feeling a little dazed. It wasn’t until a few days later that he remembered that he didn’t actually tell Enjolras his name.

 

* * *

 

 

Old Paris was beautiful. New Paris was even more beautiful.

People forgot how deceiving beauty was.

The wasteland in the Fringes was beautiful when you thought about it, a great deal more beautiful than the broken provinces. Grantaire had lived in some pretty messed up places before. He didn’t see the point in opting for nature as opposed to destroyed concrete structures.

Not until he met Fantine and Feuilly that is.

 They were together when he met them. It seemed like they’d known each other for a while and they taught him the value in living in the wild.

It was easier to hunt and find food. It was easier to bathe because the lakes and rivers were closer. It was easier to hide, because very little people chose the wild (for good reason. There was an abundance of wild animals, which is great when you’re hungry, but not so much when you wanted to sleep). There was a less chance of you being killed in falling buildings or having to sleep in the debris.

The worst part about the Fringes was weirdly enough that it was a lawless place. You could kill, beat, rape, steal and nothing would happen to you. It was dangerous. The less populated places were safer. When you had to choose between whether you were killed in your sleep by a crazy, starved and angry Unwanted or a wild boar, he’d pick the wild boar any day.

The second worst part about the Fringes was how scattered everyone was. If you put a bunch of criminals and damaged people, even more damaged by their circumstances, there are bound to be cliques. You need a group, a family to survive. Grantaire only had Bahorel for a long time, until he met them.

 

* * *

 

 

“You never told me you were planning a revolution with Saint Michael, the angel with the flaming sword sent down to earth to defend us against the wickedness and the snares of The Keys!” Grantaire yelled accusingly at Feuilly the minute he dropped the bags in Fantine’s room.

Feuilly, who was used to what he lovingly called “Grantaire’s nonsense”, rolled his eyes from where he, Bossuet and Bahorel were constructing the base for another shed. “Come help us you idiot.”

And there went Grantaire’s plans for the evening. Not that he really had any, but still.

Much, much later when they were done (Fantine said they had three more to build, and really if they were planning anarchy they might need a lot more. But the base was the easy part of it all. Finding the amount of wood and leaved they needed for the walls and the roofs, that was the real challenge) Fantine called them into her room.

Eponine and Gavroche were already sitting next to her sorting out the clothes and books and other supplies from one bag. (The other was well hidden away. If Grantaire himself didn’t bring the bags back he wouldn’t know that there were more than one.) Well that was one thing The Elites were good for in any case. Living in the wild and fending for yourself was great and everything (Well not really, but yeah) but all of them kind of drew the line and using leaves and rope for clothes like modern day Adams and Eves. Fantine was amazingly good at making clothes for them out of hemp, and sometimes Grantaire and Feuilly would help her, but they kept a mixture of what Grantaire called _the clothes he could smoke_ and regular clothes.

With everybody sitting and laughing he didn’t bother bringing up what Enjolras said until the next day. It was a good day and they so very rarely had many of those.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They all got cast out for different reasons, but if an outsider asked them why their answer would be distantly different from the truth.

Fantine got pregnant when she was still a teenager. She had her kid and she took care of her the best she could. She was poor but always willing to work. The problem was that no one was willing to hire her. She eventually sank into destitution and became a prostitute. When she was caught they took her and her child, ready to throw them both out. When she pleaded with a rich, but quiet benefactor that she knew from where she grew up to take her little girl, the police refused her. It was only when he firmly declared that he _wanted_ to take the child that they allowed him to take her. She never even got to kiss her goodbye.

When people asked her, she said it was because of cruelness.

 

Eponine and Gavroche’s parents were crooks. They both got caught stealing, albeit at different times, because their parents couldn’t be assed to provide for them. It was funny that they still lived in the Citadel while two of their children were cast out.

If you asked them though, they’d both tell you to mind your own damn business.

 

After Bossuet’s inheritance was gone he smooth-talked his way into a bed every night. It was pretty easy. He was charming and funny and distinctively handsome even with his bald head. One night though, he couldn’t find room anywhere and he took the chance and slept on a park bench. When someone saw him and made a report and they realized that he had no home and no job, he was immediately put in a cell to be tossed out like trash.

Bossuet liked to make a joke of it when people asked and say: “It was just my luck.”

 

Bahorel fell in love. It was that straightforward. He fell in love with a man whose laugh pealed like bells. They loved each other for years until they were found out, but when they were, the man’s father locked him up and turned Bahorel over to the authorities telling them that he tried to have sex with him. Bahorel never even considered telling them the truth because then they would just both be damned.

Whenever anyone asked him he would just say: “I fucked a dude.”

 

Feuilly was the only one who wasn’t thrown out. He was born in the Fringes and whoever his parents were; they took care of him just long enough to leave him to fend for himself in the wilderness when he was eight.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Feuilly kept looking at him like he was trying to figure something else, which wasn’t weird in itself, but it wasn’t until the fifth time he did it that Grantaire asked him what the fuck he was doing.

He didn’t respond, all he said was: “You met Enjolras right?”

And Grantaire’s heart didn’t jump at that name. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the tall, blonde God who spoke with the conviction of a preacher the words of a martyr. “Crazy blonde dude right? I vaguely remember meeting him. I also remember telling you _and_ everyone else every single detail of that meeting.”

Feuilly just nodded and Grantaire took that as a perfect reason to continue.

“You know the meeting where I was informed that you’re all planning to get yourselves killed in a revolution I was told nothing about. That meeting right?”

“Grantaire.” Feuilly sighed, and Eponine walked up behind them and sat herself next to them before he could continue. They were sitting in front of the fire, because it was starting to get fucking cold, winter was coming very soon and they were only barely prepared.

“I think they’re full of shit too R, don’t worry. They’re fucked if they think I’m getting killed for anything less than my Pa’s head on a platter.” She nudged his shoulders and smiled that very dark smile. Sometimes Grantaire forgot how fucked up Eponine’s life was before she even came to Fantine’s Home for Wayward Little Boys and Girls. Her father was a piece of shit in a much worse way than his father was. She wasn’t like him. He lived for other people. She lived for herself. She would survive wherever she went because not surviving to her, means losing and she never loses.

“That’s why you’re my favourite.” He smirked and she returned it with a wink.

“That’s bullshit.” Gavroche said sneaking up behind them and ignoring Fantine’s cry of _“Language!”_ from inside her hut. “We all know I’m your favourite.”

“Very true.” Grantaire acquiesced. “Sorry Ep, you get second place.”

“Fair enough.” Eponine shrugged grabbing Gavroche and dragging him on her lap while he struggled. They were the oddest pair of siblings ever. You wouldn’t even know they were related by looking at them, or talking to them. When Gavroche had first come, they barely even talked to each other. It wasn’t until a few months later when Gavroche told them that his and Eponine’s father escaped arrest that they even knew they were related.

“Bahorel got us fish for dinner tonight.” Eponine said wheeling Gavroche onto her back before standing up. “Come and eat soon okay?”

They both nodded at her before she walked away.

“He wants you to bring the message and bring the supplies next month.” Feuilly said, continuing their conversation.

“Why? I mean-why?”Grantaire stammered.

“That’s what I wanted to ask you.” Feuilly replied.

“Well we argued and then I left and that was it basically.” Grantaire shrugged. And if he wasn’t going to admit to the part where he stole a very tiny piece of his heart, well that was his business.

“Well I guess he’s probably interested in arguing again.” Feuilly shrugged before leaving. Grantaire sat there for a few minutes before following.

 

* * *

 

 

When Grantaire had first met Feuilly he and Bahorel almost killed him. They had been living and hunting together for about a few months. Grantaire never thought that he would have been able to kill people so thoughtlessly, but that was his life now. This was his life as an Unwanted. And when he saw Feuilly, he didn’t see the man. He saw the possible threat.

It was dangerous how they lived before they met Fantine. When they send you to the Fringes, they send you there to die. In the wilderness, with no way of survival Grantaire and Bahorel managed to survive together for three years and all Grantaire saw was someone who could harm that potential survival. (He made the mistake of trusting someone in the Fringes when he was much younger and more naive. It ended with him in torn clothes and soreness in places that made him feel violently ill. The next day had found him and Bahorel covered in blood with a dead body behind them and a very valuable lesson learned.)

Feuilly though, was very slippery and good at getting out of sticky situations. He’d been living there a lot longer than either of them. They both ended up unconscious before a fire. He and Fantine introduced themselves before getting them threadbare blankets, but blankets nonetheless, and broth. It still took a long time before they could really trust either of them, but sitting warm in front of a fire with two people smiling kindly made them feel a type of safety that they thought was lost to them forever.

 

* * *

 

 

Grantaire tried to keep the confusion in his head to a minimum as he stalked through the night. Everything was dark and wet, but he knew the Fringes well enough that he never missed a step. He still didn’t know why _he_ was the one who was supposed to meet Enjolras. Whatever it was that his family was planning with him, it had nothing to do with Grantaire. There was little doubt as to whether or not Grantaire would help when the time came, he loved them too much to just leave them to a some unknown fate, but the planning part of it all should have absolutely nothing to do with him.

Enjolras was there first again and Grantaire was kind of disappointed. He really did want to know how he kept getting out of the Citadel. He smiled when Grantaire approached and yeah this was what was confusing him. Unless Grantaire remembered their last meeting well, it involved them arguing and then Grantaire inadvertently brushing him off. Enjolras looked way too pleased to see him again and that reminded Grantaire of a bone he had to pick with him.

“How the hell did you know my name?” Enjolras looked taken aback by the harsh greeting and the smile fell from his face. Given their last encounter he didn’t understand why his brusque words were so bizarre, but he was sad to see the smile go. The man really did look beautiful when he smiled.

“Feuilly talks about you a lot.” Enjolras finally responded when he school his face into a calm mask. “So does Gavroche, and Fantine, and Bahorel and...you get where I’m going with this right?” At Grantaire’s nod he continued. “You were the only one I hadn’t met yet so, I just figured it out.”

“Right. So why did you want to meet me?” And before Enjolras could open his mouth he added, “Me _specifically_.”

“Because I’m interested in what you have to say.” He replied simply.

And it really was that simple.

They talked for hours. They talked about The Keys, how many Elites hid behind the regime and how many were willing to help, but going down that road left Grantaire scoffing and Enjolras seething so they veered onto different topics. The more they talked, the more it became clear that they barely agreed on anything. They agreed on the fundamentals, of course, but from there on, not so much.

Enjolras would say that inaction is the greatest weapon The Keys have.

Grantaire would say that their greatest weapon was fear.

They were both right.   

 

* * *

 

 

 

The people of New Paris comforted themselves with platitudes.

People in New Beijing were culled in the thousands before the exiles started.

In New Washington DC and New Manhattan your race had value as to whether or not you were deemed worthy to live.

New Paris wasn’t so bad.

It was tame when you compared it to everywhere else. Some people slept better at night with these _comforts_.

 

Before all of this started, the people had wanted change. They wanted things to be better. They didn’t want this. No one wanted this. No one wanted the price of being even vaguely different to be death. No one wanted every single thing about you and your life scrutinized to deem you worthy of the simple gift of existing. No one wanted your wealth, ability to reproduce, who you wanted to fuck, who you wanted to spend your life with, how you view yourself or how well your head was screwed on to be the determining factors in your survival. No one wanted this. No one did but it didn’t matter because but they were stuck with it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Enjolras met with Grantaire on and off. Enjolras still met with Feuilly and with Fantine. He still saw Eponine and Bahorel on occasion and Bossuet apparently knew him better than any of them, but their conversations were different to the ones Grantaire had with him.

When he and Enjolras talked the topic veered from everything to philosophy to politics to literature (well what little Grantaire had access to). When Enjolras talked to the rest of his family, it was about weapons and ammunition and rebellion.

He had no idea managed to fit his way in with a crowd who couldn’t bear to watch people hurt without doing something about it. It was stupid. It was ridiculous, generic, false heroism. It was brave and admirable and Grantaire respected them even more for it.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Life was Bahorel’s brashness. It was the way he did everything as though he was giving a performance; not because he was, because outlandish and colourful were the only thing he knew how to be.

Life was Feuilly’s determination. It was the way he tried his hardest with everything he did because he knew what happened to you when you didn’t try at all.

Life was Eponine’s tenacity and how fiercely she protected anyone she thought was worthy of her protection. It was the way she would let you see her smile a real, unguarded smile because she trusted you enough to let you in that much.

Life was Gavroche’s light-heartedness, how he didn’t let even the biggest problem bring him down and instead just said: “It happened. That’s that. You have to move on.”

Life was Bossuet’s sarcasm. The way he took everything that happened to him in stride and never let it make him bitter.

Life was his friends.

Life was his family. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Grantaire saw it coming before any of them did. The thing about his hopeful brand of cynicism is that when you hope for the best and expect the worst, it really isn’t all that disappointing when the worst comes.

The bell was ringing.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was all really just a matter of bad timing. Speaking your mind became a criminal offence right around the time that Enjolras and his friends needed their free speech the most.

Charming men with pretty words and too much power were always terrified of one thing: _ideas_.

 

* * *

 

 

So Enjolras, along with five other of his friends were added to their little family. They fitted in with them in the strangest way. Most people didn’t stay with them. They were just a place to pass through. He could vaguely understand why. They were clannish and very untrustworthy of other outsiders and with good reason. Sometimes people were unfairly cast out, but sometimes they were murderers and rapists and thieves. Criminals. It was funny that rape and depression, murder and homosexuality all had the same taint accompanied with it. Don’t do it or you’re dead. It was funny except for the part where it wasn’t funny at all and it made Grantaire want to break skulls.

Enjolras looked like he wanted to break skulls too. When he talked about the injustice caused by The Keys and The Elite (and he wasn’t an Elite, not anymore) he looked like he wouldn’t like any better than to brain them with a huge piece of rock and Courfeyrac, Joly, Jehan, sometimes Combeferre looked like they weren’t a step behind.

They all had a bit of savage in them, and maybe that’s why they fit in. All of them; Grantaire, Fantine, Eponine, Bossuet, Feuilly, Bahorel and even Gavroche have all done things that they wouldn’t admit, even to _each other_ , to survive.

 

* * *

 

 

Combeferre and Enjolras shared a hut, Courfeyrac and Marius shared another one and Joly and Jehan shared the other. Maybe Fantine wasn’t as optimistic as Grantaire thought. There was one extra hut just in case.

Grantaire hadn’t known this kind of permanence he found  with his family since he lived in the Citadel. In the five years that he and Bahorel had known Fantine, they only had to move four times.

And where they were now, was about a stone’s throw away from an open river and yet they were still hidden from anyone who might be on the watch towers of the Citadel.

She was better and planning than anyone he knew.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Enjolras and his lieutenants didn’t understand the term _defeat_. The planning began the night they arrived. None of them looked sad or disappointed or shocked, so maybe they weren’t as optimistic as Grantaire thought they were either.

The next morning, Joly, the youngest and most cheerful of them all and Combeferre, the quiet, solemn man who stuck close to Enjolras just started talking to Feuilly about which plants they used for medicine, or for paper, which they used for clothes and to make Grantaire’s paints and dyes and Feuilly just took it all in stride, helping them spot and differentiate between all the leaves.

Jehan talked to Bahorel about hunting, and the places they usually frequented, the places with the most wild animals and the places with the deadliest.

Courfeyrac cozied on up to Bossuet and they were busy cracking jokes as Bossuet explained the best times for them to go to the lake whether it was to fish or bathe.

Eponine and Marius were talking privately about something that made her face twist into a scowl and Gavroche was flitting in between everyone like a bird. (He was excited about the newcomers.)

The only people who weren’t anywhere to be found were Enjolras and Fantine, which meant that they were planning.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Grantaire didn’t see Enjolras much over the course of the next few days, but he did get better acquainted with his friends. None of them were exactly happy to be there, (no one ever was) but they transitioned better than anyone he’d ever seen. It was obvious that they were preparing for this, but it’s one thing thinking about it and another actually living it. Out here everything seemed bigger. Grantaire couldn’t remember how it looked _inside_ but he did remember the feeling of absolute loneliness and dread when he first got out here, even though he had Bahorel with him. He could read it on most of their faces. You could prepare yourself all you like; you’d never really be fully prepared.

Grantaire got along with all of them. Marius remained a mystery. He spent most of his time either with Fantine or Eponine. The three of them sat holed up in Fantine’s hut for hours sometimes talking about God knows what. Grantaire didn’t really want to find out. He knew best that sometimes secrets are kept for a reason.

The rest of them though. He liked them. He didn’t know how much he trusted them, but he liked them. Combeferre was a nice quiet presence and he enjoyed talking philosophy with Grantaire.  When he told Grantaire that he’d brought some of his favourite books along and he wouldn’t mind lending them to him, Grantaire could have kissed him.

Courfeyrac got along with everyone. It was strange, but he just fit in like he’d been there from the beginning. He spent most of his time with Combeferre and Enjolras or with Marius but he also spent a fair amount of time with Bossuet and Joly (who were becoming fast friends) which meant that by extension they also spent a lot of their time with Grantaire. Watching the three of them together was like watching clowns on ecstasy, having sex...while eating a shitload of candy. It was like a breath of fresh air from the gloom and doom sometimes, and sometimes it was too much.

Out of all of them Jehan spent time with Grantaire the most. It unnerved Grantaire to begin with because he was never the most trusting person, even _before_ , but he grew on him, all of them did but none like Jehan. Not liking Jehan seemed to be a task that was virtually impossible. He was quiet and he talked in verses more often than not. The only time he ever really raised his voice was when it was something he thought really strongly about. It was oddly charming. Maybe it was because outside of Feuilly, Grantaire was surrounded by a bunch of loudmouths. Himself included. The quiet was nice.

Jehan wormed his way under Grantaire’s skin in the best way. He’d forgotten what it was like to have a friend whose main concern wasn’t how they were going to survive the next day. It was just easy.

He was interested in Grantaire’s failed attempts at painting that he never showed to anyone under no circumstances ever. The worst thing though, was that Grantaire was sure that Jehan would be the first person to see them. (He wasn’t)

It also helped that Jehan was just as interested in plants that could be used as intoxicants as Grantaire was.

 

* * *

 

 

 

The meetings started a month into their arrival and Grantaire took great fun in disagreeing with everything everyone said. When he wasn’t ignoring them to go paint or hunt on his own, he would spend his time joyfully tearing their ideas to shreds. He told himself that he was helping. He told himself that they would face worse. He told himself anything to get rid of the disappointment on everyone’s face when he did it, or even worse the way Enjolras barely even reacted to him at all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Over the course of the next few months, more Unwanteds started coming to the meetings and it made Grantaire apprehensive. It also made him tone down on the heckling. It looked like people were listening and Enjolras would have his revolution sooner than he thought.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Combeferre seemed to be the only one who found his apathy interesting. Maybe it was because he was the first one to see it for what it was. Fear.

“You don’t have to be so scared Grantaire.” He said one day while they were sorting through the things that Courfeyrac’s contact sent for them. “No one’s asking you to fight if you don’t want to.”

“That’s not what I’m scared of.” Grantaire huffed a sharp breath after a moment of silence.

“What are you scared of then?” Combeferre asked, ceasing the pretence of folding clothes and looking at him.

Grantaire was not quite ready to give up the charade so he kept on stacking the books. “I don’t know Combeferre. Losing everyone I care about. Watching the people I love die. Losing entirely. Being tortured if we lose and get captured. Take your pick.” Combeferre kept his silence and let Grantaire talk. “Mostly though, I’m scared that I’m going to end up fighting and liking it. I hate The Keys more than anything, but they won’t be the ones fighting. No it will be The Elites. They’re the ones who will shed blood and have their blood shed. I’m scared I will hurt them and that- I’m scared that I’ll like it and then there will be no difference between me and any of them.”

“There will always be a different between fighting for freedom and killing for power.” Combeferre sighed and he looked like he understood Grantaire’s concerns pretty well.

“At the end of the day, we’ll just all be murderers.” Grantaire replied softly.

 

* * *

 

 

“If you want to waste your time with this nonsense that’s on you, I’m going to sleep. Y’know while I’m still alive to do it.” Grantaire didn’t slam the door to his hut like a bratty child, but the sentiment was still there.

He heard Enjolras keep talking as though his little outburst didn’t happen through his thin walls and wondered why he was surprised. If he got to throw tantrums like an infant everyone was well within their rights to ignore him. All Enjolras ever did was ignore him. When he talked, when he ranted, Enjolras looked at him briefly before turning away. He didn’t even yell at him like he used to in the beginning. Use his words to hurt him like Grantaire did. Enjolras was too good to him. Enjolras was perfect and he was an ass.

He couldn’t even pay attention to anything other than the way his mind was racing. They were all going to die. His friends, his family, they were going to die and he was going to be alone. He knew ranting and railing about it was useless but it was all he could do. It was their choice and they made it knowingly, _willingly_. He just didn’t get how they expected him to survive without them. He could fight. There was a small part of him, the part that was still so fucking angry, that wanted him to fight but he couldn’t. How could he fight for a cause that he knew was doomed from the start? How could he fight for change when it was the fight for change that put them all where they are in the first place? How could he _not_ fight when everything he had to lose would be in the battle?

 _Fuck_.

 

* * *

 

 

 

He passed by Marius and Fantine who were talking to each other quietly when he saw them. Fantine gave him a severe look that he really didn’t need as he walked by. He was looking for Enjolras for a reason. He was sitting by the river when Grantaire found him. He was usually accompanied by Combeferre or Courfeyrac, or both of them, but he was alone now. He seemed pensive. Grantaire didn’t make a sound as he walked closer to him, but still Enjolras spoke when he neared. “Are you just going to stand there?”

Grantaire sat next to him and looked out at the water. It was late. He could barely see the outline of Enjolras’ face in the moonlight.

He didn’t exactly know how he felt about Enjolras. It was nearing a year since they’d been here and he and Enjolras rarely ever talked unless it was to argue. His arguing came in the form of teasing. When Enjolras got frustrated, his ears went red, his cheeks, he clenched his fists and he looked like he was trying his hardest not to deck Grantaire in the face. He looked beautiful. Grantaire had used the word beautiful in relation to Enjolras so much that the word had ceased to have any meaning to him. He needed to find new words for him. He could write an entire dictionary twice over, creating new words to describe exactly what Enjolras was, because the words that existed now; beautiful, luminescent, stunning, golden, charming, compelling, magnetic, charismatic, captivating, those words weren’t enough.

“I’m not going to apologize.” He grumbled and Enjolras chuckled. It was a tiny one but it was one of the first times Enjolras has laughed because of him since coming here. 

“I never expected you to.”

“Good.” Grantaire replied.

After a while he asked. “Do you really think we’re wasting our time, or do you say this to rile me up?”

Grantaire hesitated before responding. “No. I- you’re not wasting your time. I’m an ass.”

“Then why did you say that? Do you usually go about saying things you don’t mean?”

The moon was their only source of light and Enjolras’ hair shone in it. It was unfair. He looked like a pre-Raphaelite painting. An angel deigning to spend a moment of its time with a mortal, no-with a demon; if Enjolras was an angel, Grantaire was something of the underworld. Not even worthy to breathe the same air as him. He was a black hole sucking out the light from the sun and leaving nothing but darkness in its place. 

“I already told you.” Grantaire sighed. “I’m an ass.”

“You have to be on my side Grantaire.” Enjolras took his hand and Grantaire held it like a lifeline. “I need you on my side.”

 “I’m always on your side.” Grantaire whispered in awe. He knew what Enjolras meant. He needed every man he could get, but it wasn’t often that one was needed by a God.

If everything ended, right there at that time with Enjolras’ hands in his and his gaze upon him so unwavering, he wouldn’t have minded.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Jehan was helping him mix paints when Enjolras walked up behind them. His hair was tied up in a ribbon and really, it was a bit ridiculous for one person to be this lovely.

“E! Do you want to help?” Grantaire glanced at Jehan and raised his brow, because Enjolras didn’t do this. He didn’t things like this, things that had no relation to their cause but that still didn’t stop him from replying “Sure.” And well- that was unexpected.

He sat next to Grantaire and folded his legs before grabbing some dye and copying their movements.

They did their work quietly until Jehan stopped and kissed Grantaire on the forehead before getting up and leaving.

When Grantaire looked up, Enjolras was looking at him with his face crumpled in consternation.

Just as Grantaire was about to tell him to spit it out he asked. “Do you like Jehan?” Which really wasn’t what he was expecting, but apparently today was going to be a day of surprises. ( And maybe he didn’t show it enough but he really did like Enjolras’ friends.)

“Of course I do. I think he’s on the way to becoming one of my closest friends...” Grantaire replied with some trepidation, because Enjolras was beginning to look more and more unhappy with each word and that really wasn’t what Grantaire was aiming for at the moment, or ever.

“Enjolras what’s-“ He didn’t get to finish his sentence because Enjolras already standing up and wiping his hands off on his pants before giving more of a grimace than a smile and leaving Grantaire alone with his paints.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next time he got to talk to Enjolras, and by talk he meant _talk_ not briefly say hello before Enjolras practically ran away from him, was two weeks later. He consoled himself with the reminder that Enjolras was busier than any of them. Fantine and Feuilly barely had time to do anything other than liaise with Unwanteds that they knew or helped. Everyone else was busy dealing with ammunition and maps and plans and blueprints and things Grantaire tried really hard to pretend didn’t exist so it was completely reasonable that Enjolras hadn’t talked to him in so long after their very weird conversation.

However that didn’t stop Grantaire from talking Combeferre into sleeping in with Bossuet that night and ambushing Enjolras in his own room. It was a dirty trick, but Combeferre wanted Grantaire to fix whatever it was he did wrong too.

He was sitting on Enjolras’ bed when Enjolras finally came back to his room, and Grantaire was going to have to talk to Combeferre about getting Enjolras to bed at a reasonable time because he was sure he was waiting there for hours.

Enjolras didn’t even notice him at first, which spoke volumes to the state of their relationship.  It was only when he cleared his throat that Enjolras jumped and turned around. He let out a sigh of relief (or maybe annoyance, who knew with him anymore) when he saw it was just Grantaire.

“Why are you here?” He asked harshly, and really, Grantaire deserved that.

“Because I want to apologize.” Grantaire replied.

Uncertainty began to creep on Enjolras’ face. “Apologize for what?”

And Grantaire had sort of hoped that he would just accept the apology and move on without any questions because: “I don’t know. Whatever it is I did that made you so upset.”

Enjolras’ mouth formed an “o” before he sighed and sat next to him. When he did, his entire body slumped like he was exhausted and he probably really was. Grantaire tried not to be hyper aware of the man sitting next to him, but he could feel every twitch, every movement and this was quite possibly an awful idea.

“You didn’t do anything Grantaire.” Enjolras exhaled heavily. “I’m just awful and possessive of things that don’t belong to me.” And Grantaire really wasn’t following. “I’m happy for you and Jehan, but it’s just going to take me a while to show it for obvious reasons.” And Grantaire _really_ wasn’t following.

“W-what the fuck Enjolras?!” Grantaire exclaimed because really, _what the fuck_.

“I-“ Enjolras looked unsure. “I’m apologizing?”

“What are you apologizing for? What am I apologizing for? W-what...just what?” Grantaire threw his hands up in the air in exasperation because he felt like he was missing a lot at that point.

Enjolras replied very carefully like he agreed with Grantaire’s mental assessment. “I’m apologizing for being jealous of you and Jehan’s relationship. And I don’t know why _you’re_ apologizing when I’m the one that’s wrong here.”

“Since when do you get jealous?” Grantaire asked before his mind caught on to something more important. “Since when are Jehan and I in a relationship?!”

“Since-I thought- I mean you told me...”

“I told you we were close friends!” Grantaire exclaimed, his eyes wide.

“Well that’s what you _say_ when you’re in a relationship with someone The Keys would disapprove of!” And that’s a nice way to reference the irritating queerphobia.

“Enjolras we’re not in the Citadel.” Grantaire said slowly as if he were talking to a baby deer. “If you like someone you don’t have to hide behind ‘friendship’ or hazy words.”

And Grantaire really wasn’t paying the right kind of attention if he didn’t realize Enjolras’ transition didn’t happen as smoothly as it did for the others. “So I can just say it if I’m in love with someone?”

“Well, yeah. You can love whoever you want to love and it’s ok-umph” Grantaire got cut across by Enjolras smashing his mouth into his somewhat roughly and-oh. (And everything, from the minute they met, to the river, to the paint to now fell together in his head and well that... _oh!_ ) It was sloppy and clumsy but Grantaire didn’t care, because Enjolras’ arms were around his neck and he was kissing him like he wanted nothing but to do this for the rest of his life.

Grantaire did draw back eventually and Enjolras chased his mouth and literally whined when Grantaire said “Wait.”

“Let’s do this slower okay?” Grantaire breathed, cupping Enjolras’ face with his hand and Enjolras just nodded silently.  “So...you like me?”

Enjolras looked like he wanted to say a lot more, but he just nodded. Grantaire traced the line of his cheekbone in awe.

“Okay well-” A part of Grantaire wanted to talk him out of it. Tell Enjolras that he’s an obsessive, damaged, freak with blood on his hands. The other part of him wanted to not say a single word and hold onto him so tightly that he would suffocate him and just keep Enjolras with him for as long as he could. “I like you too.” And that was an understatement, but the way Enjolras’ eyes lit up at that was entrancing. Too bad he had to ruin it. “But we can’t do this. I’m not a good idea. Ask anyone. I’m rude and offensive and I like making you angry. Who does that? Who seriously looks at the object of their affection and think _‘Hmmn how can I piss him off today?’_ ” Their  lips were so close together that he could feel Enjolras’ breath on him, close and heavy and he wanted nothing more than to betray his own words and close the distance between them, but he forced himself not to. “I’m a mess, and you don’t need that okay. I’m just. I’m a bad idea.”

Grantaire’s said all this softly and his excuse sounded weak and stupid in his own ears, (he always lacked conviction) but Enjolras obviously found something there that he understood because his eyes softened and his lips brushed Grantaire’s softly, a fleeting caress. His breath hitches embarrassingly as Enjolras pulled away and smiled at him. (And Grantaire lived for that smile.) “I think whether or not you’re a ‘good idea’ should be my choice, and I believe that you’re a better person than you give yourself credit for.”

Grantaire absolutely did not whimper at that, but if he did Enjolras thankfully ignored it in favour of placing small kisses along his jaw line. He was still clumsy and inexperienced but Grantaire didn’t care. “You’re so fucking beautiful.” Grantaire babbled as Enjolras started kissing his neck and Grantaire ran his hands through Enjolras’ hair. And it was soft and silky and how on earth did he get it to do that without product but that was beside the point, because they were both panting and Enjolras’ hands were a harsh grip on his sides and Grantaire was sure that the way he clutched his hair in his hand wasn’t any gentler and they needed to slow this down. They needed to- Fuck.

He realized he was saying all of this aloud when Enjolras pulled away from him and watched him in amusement. Grantaire took the moment to take him in. His cheeks were flushed pink, his eyes were bright, his hair was a mess and his lips were red and swollen and Grantaire would have liked nothing better than to ravish him. To wreck him completely in the best way possible, but instead he took a shaky breath and held Enjolras’ face gently in his hands.

Grantaire kissed him slowly this time, his tongue brushing against Enjolras’ lips and Enjolras opened his mouth slightly in response granting him entrance. Enjolras’ hands were on his waist and Grantaire’s hands were on the side of his face. His heartbeat stuttered when he pushed her tongue in slightly and pulled it back just as quickly. Grantaire traced his tongue over Enjolras’ lips and their noses bumped together awkwardly. Grantaire still smiled into it before biting his bottom lip. He was licking into his mouth and swallowing Enjolras’ moans and everything felt so heavy and real and Grantaire didn’t know what to do, (his hands were tangled in Enjolras’ hair trying to pull him closer, bring him deeper, make him bury himself in Grantaire and never leave. Fuck. He doesn’t want him to ever leave) he only knew that he didn’t want it to stop.

They didn’t.

They spent the rest of the night learning each other. Grantaire kissed every spot on Enjolras’ body, traced his hands along every crevice until there was no part of Enjolras that was untouched. When Enjolras tried to return the favour, he kissed just him quiet and told him that this was enough.

He wanted to know Enjolras for one night. The rest they could do later.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Bahorel smiled at him when he told him and he counted that as a win. Bahorel was the only one he planned to tell. Everyone else could figure it out on their own. After everything, they’d been together the longest. They knew each other in ways that neither of them wished to ever discuss.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Neither Combeferre nor Courfeyrac felt the need to give him the entire threatening _‘You hurt my best friend, I hurt you’_ speech. They just smiled at him. Trust was something that you had to have when you lived as closely as they did and they trusted him not to hurt Enjolras, for which he was entirely grateful, because he didn’t even trust himself entirely to not hurt him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Grantaire never said _‘I love you’_. He didn’t express himself with words. His words were a performance, his actions were real. The I love you was in the way Grantaire looked at Enjolras whenever he talked. It was in the way he touched his face like he was touching a holy scripture and said his name like it was a prayer. It was the way he tenderly stroked his golden curls. It was in the gentle hand placed on his hips when he was buried inside him, moving slowly and savouring every moment as though it was the last time he’d ever get to do it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Nothing really changed after that and Grantaire didn’t expect it to. The revolt was still going on as planned. The meetings were actually starting to increase in frequency. People yelled about the injustice of their system. Enjolras gave speeches and people kept coming and pledging their loyalty to the revolution. Enjolras was just as busy as ever. The only difference was in the warm glances towards him, and the soft kisses that they traded by the lake, and the way they curled up next to each other when the night came and truly that was all the difference Grantaire needed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“You don’t have to explain it to me you know.” Grantaire sighed as Enjolras rested his head on his chest, his yellow hair was tied up in a loose bun and Grantaire was stroking his head gently.

“Of course I do. Grantaire even if this doesn’t stop the worst of it, this will be monumental. No one’s ever stood up to them. No one’s ever dared. Can you even imagine it? It will be Unwanteds and Elites alike marching through the Citadel, fighting for the safety of the France, of mankind. It will give the people hope. ” He stated, his voice sounded like sovereignty and Grantaire was only _that_ strong.

“Does this mean I’m going to hear how you kept getting out of the Citadel?” Grantaire joked weakly. It wasn’t a _‘Yes please tell me all your plans’_ , but it was something.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Enjolras never said _‘I love you’_. There were never any terms of endearment but there was never any denying it. The I love you was in the way he took Grantaire’s hand in his and kissed it like there was nothing else he wanted to do in the world. It was in the way he ran his hands through those tangled curls as he slept and worried about whether or not this man that meant so much to him would die in his arms before he got killed or if it would be the other way around. It was in the way he couldn’t even consider surviving without him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Grantaire had never seen so many Unwanteds in one place before, but when Enjolras gave a speech people were enraptured and part of him was glad that he wasn’t the only one affected by that type of absolute conviction.

 

* * *

 

 

They were lying next to each other, their hands joined and their bodies wrapped around each other.

“We march tomorrow.” Enjolras whispered into his mouth and he kissed him softly. “Grantaire I want you to march with us.”

“There’s no place else I’d ever want to be than by your side.” Grantaire sighed into his mouth, kissing him firmly.

The smile Enjolras gave him when he pulled away was blinding and as Grantaire traced Enjolras’ lips with his fingers, he thought _‘Anything would be worth it to get him to smile like that.’_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Life was Enjolras’ smile. The way his lips would quirk and his eyes would crinkle and he would focus in on him. Grantaire thought very briefly, that maybe that smile was worth dying for. 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> -Shit this is way longer than I thought it would be. The plan was to keep it under the 4k mark.  
> -If I said I wrote this fic because I really like the word "Citadel" would you believe me because it's true.  
> -The ending was purposefully ambiguous for a reason. I don't even know if they succeed. Do they win? Do they lose? Do they all say "Fuck it, ~~for Chris~~ " and go get some pizza? Who knows.  
> -If you have any questions please feel free to ask. Comments and constructive criticism are both greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading.


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